Sunday.  Sunlight, water, words.  Hot in the brain, hot down the arms.  The ocean, the cars, the beat of light upon decades.  A drive to the house of a great writer long gone, the face of the harbor splayed out beneath the bridge and reaching for Los Angeles.  The freeways, the corners, smoke curling out of the windows of old cars.  Back at the machine, the new stuff rolling out, a highway through the old cities then the break of light as the landscape waits for color.  Deconstruct safety.  Walk away from what’s mundane.  Walk away from words dead with repetition.  The stories must go on breaking bone, with  precise wonder.